


Not Enough Time

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Holding [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: I don't even know how to tag this without it being a giant spoiler, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 19:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18058238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: Brad had been afraid of how Patrice would react, how the team would react, how the whole NHL would react. It’s pathetic how *this* is what made him finally admit it.





	Not Enough Time

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. First, this is not related to the other two works I've written for Bergy/Marchy. It's its own thing. Second, this is sad. Really, REALLY sad. There was one part that I almost started crying as I wrote it, which has literally never happened before. Third, however, the ending is less sad than the rest of the fic if you can stick it out.
> 
> I love these guys. So naturally my muse fucking tortures them. It's just how my writing works, and I apologize for that.

It happens over the course of weeks… the realization that something’s not right. Brad can’t put his finger on it, because even under scrutiny everything seems ordinary. They practice, they fly out for away games, they win, they lose. But deep in his gut, he knows things aren’t quite what they’re supposed to be. For five weeks, he struggles with the idea, watching everything around him carefully.

Then five weeks becomes six weeks. Week six brings Patrice looking tired, even though he’s always asleep on the bus or the plane.

Six weeks becomes seven weeks. Patrice seems to be a little slower than usual, and it even costs them a game in overtime.

Seven weeks becomes eight weeks. Week eight brings Patrice getting boarded, a little too drawn out getting back up, and in the locker room afterwards Brad can’t believe the size of the bruise.

Eight weeks becomes nine weeks. Patrice is pale and downright _exhausted,_ to the point where he has to sit out of the third period when he can’t catch his breath.

On week ten, Brad is done asking, done worrying, done speculating. He shows up at his friend’s house and bangs on the door as hard as he can until it opens. _What the hell’s going on, Pat?_ Patrice is in sweats and a tee, whiter than a bleached shirt and generally looking like death warmed over. Away from the ice and the bustle, Brad can also see that his friend is losing weight, and a jolt of fear stabs him in the chest as they sit down on the couch.

Patrice either can’t or won’t look at him, and in the next second, it all makes sense. _Brad… I…_ His breaths are shuddering. _I’m going to die._

Between the end of that sentence and the next second, they’re both grabbing each other and bursting into tears. Brad’s gripping Patrice’s shirt so hard that his fingers put a hole in it. Patrice is just sobbing into his neck, shaky and cold and way too thin.

Brad can’t accept this, and he won’t. Between whimpers and heaving breaths he insists that it’s untrue, not even knowing what’s wrong with Patrice in the first place. He’s able to loosen one hand to rub his friend’s back, but that’s even worse because he can feel Patrice’s ribs through the shirt. How the fuck did this happen? How could he not see that his best friend was so ill?

Once he can actually talk again, he demands to know what’s going on, why does Patrice think this.

The answer is pretty straightforward: leukemia. Blood cancer. Patrice ignored how sick he’d been feeling for months, determined to play through it like always, because it’s the end of March and playoffs are soon and he’d be letting the team down. Then, finally, the coaching staff made him go see a doctor. Tests were run. They looked him over. A few days later, he got a letter in the mail telling him that he’ll be gone by this time next year or sooner.

Brad starts crying again, not as dramatically as before. Patrice sounds so… final. Defeated. Something like that, so unlike his usual self. Brad whines about treatment options, but his friend explains: by this point it’s really too late. He’d have to give up hockey, and it’s about 90% sure that treatment would just be dragging out the inevitable. And that’s the only way Patrice sounds a little like normal, because he’s determined to stay on the ice until he can’t stand up anymore. It’s all he’s got.

That’s not true, and Brad tells him so. _You’ve got your family… you’ve got me… you’ve got all of us._

So Patrice answers that Brad needs to not stop him from still playing, even like this… he’s a Bruin, and he’s going to be a Bruin until the end. It’s terrible how Brad can understand and respect that idea.

Their foreheads lean together and Brad mumbles how of course Patrice is a Bruin, because bears sometimes eat trash and that’s what his breath smells like right now. They laugh bitterly through their tears at his terrible joke. Brad rubs his cheeks off on his sleeves when they get itchy from drying tears, then hugs Patrice and asks if there’s anything he can do.

_Can you just… hang out here with me for a little bit? It’s not as bad when you’re here._

Brad nods and impulsively kisses Patrice on the forehead, then hugs him again and promises to stay as long as he needs. They channel surf for a few minutes with the volume on the tv all but muted, and somehow end up cuddling on the couch. Under normal circumstances, it’d be weird (and Brad would be swallowing _feelings_ for the hundred millionth time), but now… there will never be normal circumstances again. Thinking that has Brad trying not to start shaking as his eyes are leaking for the third time in forty minutes.

Patrice just snuggles right up, shivering a little even though the temperature is set to 73 on the thermostat. Brad wraps around Patrice as best he can, ending up being the big spoon even though he’s shorter with his face at the back of his friend’s neck. He wonders, morbidly, how long it will really take before Patrice gets overcome by this awful disease. In four terrible words, nothing can ever be the same, it’ll never be okay again.

This is probably the worst fucking timing ever, but Brad figures he should just tell Patrice the truth. It’s what he’d want to hear if he was the one quietly wasting away. _Pat, uh… fuck, I wish I said this to you before, but I-_

Patrice interrupts him in a sleepy, beaten voice: _It’s okay. I know._ He picks one of Brad’s hands from his torso to kiss the backs of his fingers. _I know why you wouldn’t tell me, too. It’s okay._

Except it’s not okay. Brad had been afraid of how Patrice would react, how the team would react, how the whole NHL would react. It’s fucking pathetic how _this_ is what made him finally admit it.

Patrice, apparently, doesn’t care about any of those things, because he just settles again on the couch and lightly strokes Brad’s forearm with his fingers. He mumbles something in French and falls asleep a few seconds later, leaving Brad to mope in silence.

Brad lightly nuzzles against Patrice’s hair with his face, wallowing in the most horrible thoughts imaginable. How the fuck can Patrice be dying?! It’s the cruelest and most unfair thing he’s ever seen. This friendly, kind, talented man is in his early thirties and doomed to a wasting death without a chance or even a full year left. Brad wonders if Patrice has even told the coaching staff yet; there’s no way in hell anyone on the team knows besides him.

It’s supremely fucked up how, when woken by Brad starting to cry again, Patrice rolls over and is the one hugging and comforting him instead of the other way around.

 

* * *

 

_He’s super not interested in this crap. Why does he even have to take biology? He’s a hockey player. Hockey doesn’t need microscopes. They have to look at slides, do comparisons, write notes. It’s stupid. Hockey doesn’t have notes._

_There’s a normal blood slide and a leukemia blood slide. The normal blood slide looks, well, normal (duh). The leukemia blood slide is really screwed up, though; the red cells aren’t red, they’re mostly black and shriveled. Ugh. It’s ugly and kind of creepy; he’s glad that hockey has nothing to do with leukemia._

 

* * *

 

Talking to the coaching staff is exactly as awful as Brad imagined it would be. He’s sitting passively next to Patrice, who’s explaining everything to a room shocked into silence. It’s amazing how Patrice’s voice doesn’t shake when there’s all those tears in his eyes, just waiting for an excuse to fall. The last thing he puts into his statement is one step up from begging, to please not take this away from him because he knows he’s going to die but he wants to stay on as long as possible.

Bruce Cassidy is the first one to respond, after almost ten minutes of everyone mulling this over. He looks Patrice square in the eye and says something to the effect of yes, they’ll let Patrice keep playing center, but ice time will have to be reduced and contact should be as limited as possible. He also says Patrice needs to come clean to the rest of the team, because almost everyone has been asking him what’s going on and until now he’s had no answers for them. The Bruins are all worried about their alt-captain.

In a terrible way, Brad’s glad they’re going to allow Patrice to keep playing, even though he’s so fucking sick. But if he can’t get better anyway, they may as well let him, because it helps a little.

The next day, in the locker room, Patrice does more explaining, but this is an incomplete version. He doesn’t say “cancer,” he doesn’t say “leukemia,” he just says that yes, he’s sick, and he won’t be playing the same as he used to. He’s going to do his best not to let it affect the team. He’ll appreciate it if people don’t ask him about it, because the specifics don’t matter for right now. Like before, Brad just watches without putting in a single word.

Instead, he thinks - people on tv always say things about “fighting” cancer and all that shit. Brad’s been in tons of fights thanks to his chosen profession. This isn’t a fight, it’s a slow decline. If Patrice wasn’t so fucking self-sacrificing when it comes to his health and the team, maybe it could’ve been a fight. By now, that’s not even an option. The fight was over before it could start.

 

* * *

 

_He knows he’s drunk. He must be drunk, because this is a fucking party. They got the Stanley Cup, after all, so… party. Drunk. He starts laughing to himself a little. Yup. Way drunk. He doesn’t mind._

_Bergy sits by him, also looking a little smashed. He feels warm and happy with his teammate here. Bergy passed him the Cup, he got to hold it, even though he hasn’t been a Bruin that long. It makes him feel special. He tries to say that to Bergy, but the words are all wrong and he starts laughing. If he wasn’t already sitting, he’d probably fall over._

_He slumps over onto Bergy’s shoulder and says through a stupid grin that he loves him, that he thinks Bergy’s perfect, thanks for letting him get to hold the Cup on the ice. Bergy’s laughing -_ I love you too, Brad _\- and kisses the top of his head. Neither of them is thinking about how fucking awkward they’re going to feel once the alcohol wears off tomorrow._

 

* * *

 

Brad ends up just staying at Patrice’s house indefinitely. He’s got clothes there, he brings over the food from his fridge. He makes sure Patrice isn’t lonely or too cold and that there’s clean laundry and cooked meals. Sometimes Patrice talks about dying, and Brad doesn’t stop him, just listens quietly or responds accordingly no matter how painful it is. Other times, Patrice doesn’t want to talk at all, so Brad just cuddles him until he relaxes and usually falls asleep.

They go to practices and games as normal. The other teams, of course, know little (if anything) about how sick Patrice really is, so he still gets checked and tripped and everything else. He has bruises on top of his bruises and Brad’s not really sure how he puts up with it so well, considering he’s having blood clotting problems… there was something last week about his platelet count being lower than it should be, which is the difference between stage 3 and stage 4.

Right now, though, they’re trying to concentrate on a separate three to four jump: because it’s game five of the Stanley Cup quarterfinals, and if they can win this one then games six and seven won’t matter, they’ll move on to the next round. In spite of everything, Patrice seems to be doing better tonight than he has been the last few times, which is a weight lifted off Brad. Today is a good day. If he doesn’t look too close, his boyfriend barely seems sick at all.

Three minutes to the end of regulation, the score is 5-4 Bruins and the Sabres have pulled their goalie; Brad shoves his way out into the neutral zone with the puck. He could take this easy goal. He really could. Instead he gives it up, passing it to Patrice, who shoots it and buries the Sabres once and for all. They crash together in celebration like they always do, and as the clock expires the team piles onto the ice.

And that’s when everything falls apart.

Patrice is suddenly not smiling anymore - he’s got an arm across Brad’s shoulders and can’t seem to hold himself up. He drops his stick to rub his nose, and there’s red smearing around. The center’s voice is a scared whimper: _Oh, that can’t be good…_ And then Brad is grabbing Patrice, not really able to catch him from hitting the ice but at least keeping the impact from being too bad. Brad frantically starts wiping the blood from his boyfriend’s face and screams for his teammates to get help.

 

* * *

 

 _He always has to swallow_ feelings _these days. He’s had to swallow_ feelings _for several years, now. Because professional sports are homophobic as fuck, no matter what anyone says to the contrary. The NHL has no players who are “out,” unlike literally every other sport on the continent. So he swallows_ feelings _whenever he’s around Patrice because hockey doesn’t like same-sex relationships for some reason and besides, Patrice probably isn’t interested in him to begin with._

_But it hurts so bad, whenever they’re celebrating on the ice or going out drinking with their team mates or even just talking. He loves Patrice enough to keep this shit to himself, because he can’t fuck up his friend’s career over something stupid. Maybe someday, things will change… but he’s not holding his breath._

 

* * *

 

Patrice is in the hospital for four days. They check him out, run tests, and like always Brad is stuck watching. There’s nothing he can do to help, nothing he can say that fixes things. He feels so worthless, no matter how many times Patrice expresses gratitude for him being there.

Everything gets discussed. The best guess the doctors can make is that Patrice really, _really_ doesn’t have much time left - a month, maybe two or three. It’s recommended that they go to grief counseling. After that, when they’re home again, Brad and Patrice have a serious talk about the playoffs. It’s obvious, now, that game five of the quarterfinals was Patrice’s last appearance, the game-winning goal was the last one he’d ever score.

Brad, obviously, isn’t dying, but he’s not going to any more playoff games that aren’t in Boston. He doesn’t care if it hurts his career, and to a certain extent he doesn’t even care about the playoffs themselves. He knows his boyfriend needs him more. Patrice is very much against this, but Brad insists: _I’m not going any further from you than I have to._ And that’s all there is to it.

It’s all over the media pretty much the instant Patrice goes home from the hospital. Brad has to see these articles and headlines whenever he goes online: **Bruins Star Player On Deathbed** , **Boston Alternate Captain Patrice Bergeron Found To Have Been Hiding Cancer Diagnosis** , and all that kind of shit. It’s infuriating. The press seems determined not to leave a shred of fucking dignity to his boyfriend, who’s very literally suffering in silence and waiting to die. Brad doesn’t say anything about it to Patrice, though, because it’s not important.

Brad still brings Patrice to games and practices, but as a spectator now instead of a participant. The other players all check up on Patrice whenever they see him, letting him know - he’s still their team mate, and he’s so loved by everyone. His number will go up in the rafters with Orr and Bucyk and all the other greats. Nobody ever says anything about him actually dying, of course, because that would be fucking tasteless, but it’s written all over their faces no matter how they try to hide it.

Apparently, Patrice has had enough of that, because he finally just tells everyone as bluntly as possible that they can stop tiptoeing around it. He’s going to die, very, very soon. It’s okay for them to be sad about it. He’s sad about it and doesn’t want it to happen any more than they do. He knows they already miss him, even though he’s not actually gone yet. And Brad’s proud of him for this, for being so honest about the situation and still trying to help everyone else feel better given the circumstances. It’s classic Bergeron, too, to not care about his own suffering when others need him.

 

* * *

 

_The postseason… it’s a nice way of saying the Bruins weren’t good enough to make it to the playoffs this year. He “celebrates” by getting absolutely hammered with his team mates, who are all disappointed in themselves for turning in an inferior season._

_Sometime past midnight, he’s lost track of his drinks and can’t walk in anything close to a straight line. Patrice drives him home and half-drags him into his house. He’s so drunk that it seems like a good idea to tell the truth, but instead of explaining anything he ends up puking. Considerably less romantic. Patrice stays with him until he falls asleep._

 

* * *

 

The current game is being played in Boston.

Brad doesn’t go.

Instead, they have the tv on NESN, watching remotely from the bed. Brad is cuddling his boyfriend, not really paying attention. Patrice had woken up and asked to stay home instead because he felt particularly weak today, so Brad called up Bruce Cassidy last minute to be marked as a healthy scratch. Now, Brad’s holding Patrice and stroking the side of his face, asking if he wants the volume up a little.

Patrice looks at him with tired, tired eyes. _Brad… you know how much I love you… right?_ Of course Brad knows. He loves Patrice back just as much. Patrice is still staring at him, with an expression that would be panicked if it wasn’t so exhausted. _I just want you to be okay… please be okay…_

Patrice is asleep before Brad can say anything back, and it takes him a few minutes to realize… his boyfriend isn’t sleeping. Brad’s in such denial that he still gets up and immediately calls an ambulance: _Please help me, he’s not breathing…_

 

* * *

 

_Everyone else is skeptical of putting this new guy on his line. He doesn’t mind so much, though, because there’s immediate threads of synergy between them on the ice. Marchand tries picking at him, like with everyone else, but he’s able to draw the left wing into actual conversations instead. They’re good together during plays. It just works._

_He can see the inherent talent in this guy, too. If Marchand could just not be such a little shit all the time, the two of them will go places together._

 

* * *

 

After sobbing and choking his way through a conversation with Bruce Cassidy over the phone, Brad’s surprised he can still cry at all during the funeral. It makes things really difficult when he has to go up and speak, because he’s constantly stopping to swallow or wipe his eyes with his hands. Everyone else talks about Patrice as a team mate, as a leader. Brad talks about him as mentor, best friend, boyfriend. Admittedly, it does make Brad feel a little better when Patrice’s family members talks about him as their son and brother.

Afterwards, Brad refuses to drink, which might seem weird except he’s got more than a few memories of being plastered with Patrice at his side, either getting just as shit-faced as him or responsibly bringing him home to sleep it off. He’s not going to tarnish those experiences by getting drunk now, because it won’t fix anything and he knows it.

Weirdly, when Brad finally goes home, he can’t help the feeling that somebody’s watching him and following him around everywhere, even though he’s completely alone. He forgets about that for a second when he gets to his house and realizes all his stuff is missing; it’s still at Patrice’s place and Brad really, really can’t go over there right now. So he just collapses onto his bed in his underwear and sleeps until noon the next day.

It fucking hurts, but Brad knows he can’t blow this off. There’s still some sweatpants in his dresser, so he puts those on (leaving his suit in a pile on the floor) and drives over. He gathers up his clothes, his laptop, all his stuff. Patrice’s brother and father will be over tomorrow to go through everything, so at least Brad isn’t saddled with that fucking nightmare, but he does look around for a specific object - there. The picture of them after winning the Stanley Cup in 2011, nicely framed on the wall. This, he does bring home with him. Their relationship was so short and during such a terrible point in time that there are really no other pictures of them together, or at least none that are so meaningful. He wouldn’t want them anyway. In this photo, Patrice is still strong and healthy, and the world is theirs for the taking.

When Brad goes home, he gets that feeling again, like someone’s watching him, even though he’s alone.

 

* * *

 

_He keeps hanging out with Brad after they make idiots of themselves rapping into a microphone, both of them getting more and more drunk as the day goes on. Even soaked in liquor, Brad still manages to be a complete lunatic like always, and he thinks it’s… kind of adorable._

_They sit after a while. Brad tries to tell him something, but breaks into a fit of giggles instead that makes him also start laughing. He lets Brad slump over onto him because Brad is cute and silly when drunk. Brad looks up at him with a huge smile:_ Bergy, I j’st w’nt you t’ know I love you… (hic) so fuckin’ much. You’re so p’rf’ct an’ you’re alw’s nice t’ me, you let me hold th’ thing wh’n we won…

_He can’t help grinning back, saying he loves Brad, too. To prove it, he kisses the top of Brad’s head. It just makes sense._

 

* * *

 

Brad’s not able to keep participating in hockey for the time being, so he goes to Halifax and stays with his family for a couple of weeks. It gives him a chance to be away from everything, including that weird feeling of being stared at, which was getting really unnerving. Maybe he’s losing it… but home with his family, that phantom sensation goes away.

After sixteen days, Brad leaves Halifax again, but he doesn’t go straight home… instead he heads to Quebec and visit’s Patrice’s family for a week. They’re glad to see him, even given the circumstances. Talking to his team mates is one thing. Spending time with the Bergeron clan is another, because while the Bruins will miss Patrice for years to come, these are the only people as destroyed by this tragedy as Brad feels. At the very least, he can commiserate with them for awhile.

Still, they make him feel welcome, despite the fact that Brad doesn’t speak a word of French. It’s not like an escape so much as an understanding, an acceptance. They’ve lost somebody important, somebody they loved more than life itself. But as terrible as that feels, the world is still turning, and Brad needs to figure out how he can keep turning with it. Patrice’s mother gives him a talking-to about this; he can’t just abandon his career in the NHL, which at one point he was seriously considering. Logically, Brad knows that would’ve been a huge fucking mistake, but he still needed to hear it from someone else.

Being in Canada for the better part of a month, Brad manages to avoid hockey somehow, and doesn’t learn that the Bruins didn’t win the Stanley Cup until he returns to Boston. He talks to the team, and to the coaching staff, apologizing for his absence and letting them know that he’s not going to give up his spot if they’ll still have him.

The feeling is back - somebody’s eyes are on him at all times, even though he’s alone. When he sleeps, he dreams of Patrice often. The strangest thing about these dreams is the fact that they’re not strange at all. Often, they’re just walking somewhere, wearing their team uniforms and talking about things that Brad can never remember when he wakes up.

 

* * *

 

_He’s known for over a year, now, how Brad really feels. Brad isn’t subtle, with all those longing looks. He’ll be really surprised if the whole team doesn’t know. But Brad also won’t say anything, and he’s not going to force his friend into it. Brad has every right to be scared of the consequences, because he’s scared of them himself._

_Truthfully, he’s not sure how long he’s been in love with his left wing. He’s also not sure if it matters how long it’s been. He wishes things were different, because he knows he loves Brad and he knows Brad loves him but neither of them has said anything to each other about it. The coaching staff would likely pitch a fit about game dynamics, supposing they fight or break up. The team would probably be unnerved if they were in a relationship. The NHL and its fans would almost certainly be in an uproar._

_He so wants things to change. Because he loves Brad. But… unfortunately… hockey comes first. Neither of them could justify giving up hockey for a relationship, and that’s probably what would happen._

 

* * *

 

Preseason comes. Brad starts getting into the swing of things with the rest of the team, despite the fact that it’s still kind of up in the air how the hole in his line is going to be filled (though it looks more and more like Krejci will take that spot). He thought he could be okay about this… not good, but okay. Then the first preseason game happens, and it’s nothing short of a fucking disaster. Brad keeps looking for Patrice to send passes to, inevitably not finding him while giving opponents enough time to steal the puck. They lose 7-2.

Chara pulls Brad aside as everyone’s leaving the locker room and makes him stay behind for a talk. The team captain is wise, and kind, and understanding. He also says Brad needs to see a therapist.

Brad does start seeing a therapist, but he’s not really honest with her. He doesn’t tell her that he dreams of his boyfriend every night. He doesn’t tell her about the feeling of being watched everywhere. He doesn’t tell her that sometimes he just _knows_ someone’s following him around through Boston, only to look and see that there’s nobody. Brad knows he must be crazy, but he won’t tell her that.

The therapy sessions become irregular when the season starts, because Brad’s now going all over the place for games again. He’s playing more normally than he did during preseason, but he sees less time on the ice than he usually would. Honestly, he doesn’t blame the coaching staff for that. In their shoes, he’d do the same thing.

Then, at the end of November, Brad gets the flu. He’s stuck at home with a high fever, repeatedly covering and uncovering himself with the blankets depending on the whim of his body temperature. But that’s not what he’s thinking about. He’s dreaming again… he must be. Because Patrice is here, cuddling him on his sweat-drenched mattress. More than that, Patrice is directing him to take care of himself.

_You’re dehydrated, Brad. You need to get up and drink some water._

_You should eat some soup, it’ll help._

_It’s okay, I know you’re too tired to change your sheets. Just lay down on the couch and wait for them to dry again._

And so on like that. Patrice holds his hand, and kisses his forehead, and tells him he’ll get better soon.

Brad tries to talk to the hallucination of his dead boyfriend: _We’ve got patches on our sweaters now of your number… I miss you so much, Pat…_ Patrice always nods and says he already knows, it’s okay, everything’s going to be okay.

Then Brad’s fever breaks and Patrice is gone again. He knows it wasn’t real… but it felt like Patrice was really there, talking to him, taking care of him. It makes everything hurt again, leaving him raw, he needs to tell someone about this but everyone he knows will throw him into a mental hospital if he does. Maybe he really should be in one.

Brad stares at his cell phone. He thinks of his therapist, of Chara, of his family… and instead calls Patrice’s mother. She checks in on him once a month or so, and she’s not surprised to hear from him so much as the fact that it’s the middle of the day. Brad explains: _I’ve been out sick, and I kept dreaming about him… I just miss him so much today, that’s all…_ It’s been a long time since he’s cried about this, but right now he thinks he’s about to. She talks him through it, calms him down. She says it’s okay for him to still be sad, and Brad feels a little better.

 

* * *

 

_He needs Brad to be okay… nothing about this situation is okay and he knows it, but he still needs Brad to be okay. He can’t breathe, his bones hurt, but he ignores it and asks, just to make sure, that Brad feels loved. He just wants Brad to be okay, when things are about as far from okay as they possibly can be._

_He can’t keep his eyes open, and then… when he closes them… he’s not laying down anymore. He’s standing on one side of the bed, watching for almost five minutes as nothing changes. Then Brad jerks upright, lunges for the iPhone on the side table, and frantically dials 9-1-1. It takes him even longer than Brad did to realize the truth…_

_He’s never been so unnerved as he is now. Because he can see himself lying there, while Brad goes through denial by demanding an ambulance before shaking him and begging him to please, please open his eyes. If he saw this in a movie, he’d probably roll his eyes. But watching Brad get torn to pieces by grief, he feels so awful that he could almost be sick on himself._

 

* * *

 

Brad still dreams about Patrice every night. And when he wakes up each morning, he tries desperately hard to remember what it is they were talking about, but nothing comes to him. By now, he’s pretty much accepted the fact that he’s fucking insane. It’s not like there’s much he can do about it anyway.

At the very least, Brad’s been doing alright. He’s nowhere near the point he’d been at before he’d lost Patrice, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get back to that spot, but he’s been improving again and they’ve been giving him more ice time. He likes to think Patrice would be proud of him for learning to deal with everything.

His helmet’s been knocked off his head, but it’s not important, his shift will probably be off again in a few seconds. Brad’s near the goal, trying to help Krug protect Rask - and in the last second before he takes a puck to his face at over a hundred miles per hour, Brad thinks he can hear (very bizarrely) Patrice screaming frantically for him to look out.

Pain of some unimaginable kind explodes behind Brad’s eyes when the vulcanized rubber goes slamming dead-center into his forehead. But then… he’s just standing off to the side, watching, as play is stopped and medics rush out onto the ice. It’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen, because… is that still him, lying there? It can’t be… he’s standing up, looking on…

A hand finds his. He didn’t even notice anyone coming over.

_Brad. Come on, you don’t want to watch this._

He looks - Patrice is here with him. Nothing makes any sense.

_What is this?_

Brad’s watching himself get carried off while his dead boyfriend is standing at his side and dressed for the game.

_Just trust me. It’s worse if you watch. We should go._

Brad doesn’t listen to Patrice - he can’t. He follows himself off the ice, listening to them talk about how he’s not breathing and his pupils won’t react to light. There’s something horribly, terribly wrong happening, and Brad’s afraid to think what it is. He’s standing off to the side in the ambulance as the EMT sticks a tube down his throat, and then follows his own body down several hallways to an operating room where his skull is cut open. It takes them over an hour to give up trying to revive him.

Brad just listens, numb, as the doctors talk to themselves: the impact of the puck was hard enough to blow an aneurism in his brain. Instant death, no chance of recovery. It’s so awful, and Brad thinks that maybe he should be crying, but it just seems like too much effort.

And Patrice is here with him again: _I didn’t want this for you, Brad…_

Brad can’t help being bitter for a moment. _You bastard… you really were following me around this whole time, weren’t you? You just let me think I was losing my shit! Why didn’t you say something?_

Patrice looks so, so sad, and Brad wishes he could pull the words back and swallow them again so they never happened. _I did tell you. Every night, I told you I was still there with you, and that I just wanted you to be okay… Christ, Brad, that’s all I wanted. I just wanted you to be okay again. You almost got there, too, and now this…_

 _But it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Me… and you… we’re both…_ Brad wonders why he can’t come up with a joke about this. He used to have jokes for everything, but the concept is over his fucking head when he desperately needs something to break this terrible moment.

 _It’s not the same._ Patrice shakes his head. _I died. You got killed. It’s not the same. This isn’t what I wanted…_

Brad just looks at him. _I didn’t want this for you either, Pat._ Slowly, with timidness that doesn’t seem to really belong to him, he reaches out to take his boyfriend’s hands. _I’m sorry I couldn’t remember what you said after I woke up. I thought I was going crazy…_

 _I tried to make it so you didn’t feel so alone,_ Patrice answers. His voice is even more sad than his face. _I didn’t want it to be so hard on you._

Brad pulls him into a hug. Holding Patrice again after so long feels amazing, a tiny drop of goodness in an ocean of bad feelings. _You don’t have to explain anything. I know you tried._

 _I wish we had more time before…_ Patrice squeezes back with his arms.

 _We were too stupid,_ Brad comments, and they both laugh bitterly.

They’re not really sure what to do next, still existing this way, so they attend Brad’s funeral. There isn’t a single Bruin present who’s not shaken to the very core, now that the team has lost two players in a span of less than ten months. Still in mourning for Patrice, they’re keeping the small number 37 patches on the fronts of their sweaters, but for the remainder of the season all the gold on their uniforms will be replaced with dark gray because… something dumb about losing such bright team mates. Brad thinks it’s stupid, but of course they can’t give him a say in things anymore.

After a few days or so, while they’re wandering the inside of TD garden following a game, Brad wonders about why they’re not only like this, but like this and in their hockey uniforms (sans sticks and helmets for some fucking reason).

Patrice seems to think about that one for a second before answering. _Well… I kept playing right up until the end. You kept playing after losing me. It’s not a thing we did, it’s part of who we were._

 _You’re too sappy sometimes,_ Brad snorts, even though it kind of does make sense, just to see his boyfriend’s eyes roll. It achieves the desired effect and he grins. _But that’s okay, I still love you._

_I know. I love you, too._

They step onto the ice holding hands as if they’re not only still alive but nervous kids on a date. They weren’t smart enough to go to each other when they were around until it was too late, and because it’d been too late they didn’t have nearly enough time together like this. Now, they have all the time. Brad still doesn’t want to be dead, of course, and he knows Patrice doesn’t like it any better than he does. But he doesn’t think there’s a better way to spend his afterlife than still skating, and he knows for sure there’s nobody else he’d rather spend it with, either.

**Author's Note:**

> When I was in 10th grade biology, we did in fact look at blood slides under microscopes at one point. I don't really know how different high school is in Canada compared to the US, but it's probably pretty similar when it comes to science classes (right?). Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong on that one.
> 
> The line at the beginning of the story where Brad makes a joke about Bergy's bad breath is because cancer patients always have really bad breath. It's unavoidable.
> 
> If you made it all the way to the end, then you, sir/ma'am/enby person, are much braver than me. I don't usually finish reading or even start reading fics like this because they're just so fucking SAD. In that sense, I'm not even sure why I wrote it, and I don't like it that much.


End file.
